


Romancing the Physician

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Injury, M/M, Napoleonic Wars, Sexytimes, h/c, regency au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 03:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: James T. Kirk has returned from the Napoleonic Wars in Spain with a badly injured leg.  Needing to be near medical professionals (and due to being the family troublemaker), he settles in a house in London to recuperate.  The doctor he ends up with is fellow war veteran and trained physician Leonard McCoy, late of the Highland regiments.  The attraction between the two men is immediate, and Jim, at least, is determined to do something about it.





	Romancing the Physician

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aishahiwatari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aishahiwatari/gifts).



> THANK YOU to aishahiwatari for the opportunity to write this story, and for helping out my sweet cat Janie Jeeves. My apologies for the title, I had to go Georgette Hayer for it.

There had been a time when Leonard McCoy hadn’t fully believed in Hell. Why would any God create mankind only to send them to eternal torment for making some unknown number of mistakes? If God was loving, as the church implied, He surely had enough love to save His children from Hell. 

Then, he joined the military, and he went to war. 

He’d been young and stupid, thinking he could help save the world from Napoleon and France’s grasping reach by taking care of his Majesty’s soldiers as an army doctor. He would stand stalwart, protecting his soldiers and putting them back together to go forth and fight again. Running away to join one of the Highland Regiments was, at least, more honorable than just fleeing from his past and his disappointed family back in Kintyre. 

Or so he thought, until he arrived in Spain. It took only weeks for him to learn that there was nothing honorable about war, and that God didn’t need to create Hell when man had done it for himself. 

“Sawbones” they called him, called all the doctors, because what he did for hours a day was cut off limbs. He removed arms in less than 10 minutes, legs in less than 20. He learned to leave flaps of skin and sew them off with the precision of a Parisian seamstress. He stepped around vomit and blocked out screams and tried to keep sweat from pouring into his eyes and blinding him mid-cut. His hands formed callouses for the saws and never, never wavered, even when he was exhausted and in danger of passing out from lack of sleep and food. Even when he was covered with blood from ten different men with no time to do more than the most perfunctory washing of his hands – and even that, the colonels growled at him about. _Wasting time_ they said, as enlisted men brought another young soldier with mangled limbs onto his blood and urine-soaked table. 

And then, they died anyway. Infection. Gangrene. Fever. They died, and they died, and they died. 

The final day of his five years, McCoy boarded a ship bound for London, heart sick and exhausted. 

\-----

James Tiberius Kirk was a disappointment to his mother, an irritant to his stepfather, a beloved but incredibly annoying brat to his brother, and general troublemaker known throughout the family lands in Mountsorrel, Leicestershire. He’d never quite behaved as a young man of his station ought, and his tendency to hang about pubs with the locals and take part in brawls didn’t endear him to the Kirk extended family. They were almost relieved when he signed up for the army and disappeared to the continent.

He returned only two and a half years later, a decorated and respected officer of the 51st Regiment of Foot. He was also weak, injured, and in need of continued medical attention he wasn’t going to be able to get in the villages around the family estate. 

This is how he found himself living in a small house in one of the nicer districts of London, accompanied by his former brother-in-arms turned (officially) valet, Montgomery Scott, and a few servants his parents insisted on to maintain appearances. It was away from his family, in the city he’d always loved visiting. It would have been perfect, if he hadn’t had an open wound on his leg that hurt like hell and was determined to get infected. 

Scotty found the doctor. “He was with the Highlanders,” he said cheerfully as he opened the windows to let in London’s version of sunlight. “He’ll know about healin’ wounds like yours.”

Jim sighed and shook his head with mock sadness. “You would abandon me to the hands of another Scot?” he asked. Scotty gave him a stern look.

“I will, and you’ll like it, laddie,” he shot back before breaking into a grin. “Now get up, unless you want to meet the physician in your nightshirt.”

“He’s a doctor,” Jim said as he pushed to the edge of the bed, wincing as he moved his right leg, which was wrapped up tightly in bandages. The familiar surge of nausea pressed at his throat, but he pushed it down with stubborn determination. “I would be most upset if I have anything he hasn’t seen before.”

“True enough,” Scotty agreed, tossing a white muslin shirt, gold and green waistcoat, and breeches on the bed to start. “But no reason to look more ill than you are, unless you want to be stuck in bed for another month or three.” 

Jim sighed – always a terrible patient, even now when he very much needed to take care of himself – and reached for the clothing. 

\-----

Leonard stopped for a moment outside the door to the townhouse, triple checking the address. He didn’t love dealing with the uppercrust; they always expected the impossible, and tried to worm out of paying. The poor would give anything they had, even if he told them not to; the rich would do everything they could to cheat him. Unfortunately, he needed the money. He couldn’t make a living being paid in pennies and eggs, as much as he’d like to; especially as he had to present as a gentleman for anyone to believe he was a trained physician.

_Dealing with assholes,_ he thought. _I survived military assholes, I can handle this._

He straightened his shoulders and lifted the knocker.

The door was answered promptly by a grinning fellow Scot, though he was much more dedicated to the home country than Leonard; he wore a kilt with his black butler’s frock coat. “Dr. McCoy?” he asked, completely disregarding proper etiquette. “Jim’s-ah- Mr’s Kirk’s here in the parlor. May I take your hat?”

Mildly bemused, Leonard stepped inside, handing over his hat and gloves. The weather was too mild for an overcoat. “I see I’m expected,” he said dryly, keeping his physician’s bag in his left hand.

“Aye, that ye are.” The valet beamed at him like they were old friends and started ushering him down the tight hallway. Leonard’s head nearly brushed the ceiling. “He’s a right stubborn lad, so mind you take a firm hand with him.”

“I heard that, Scotty!” called a voice from around the next doorway. Leonard’s bemusement took on an edge of amusement – this certainly wasn’t the usual behavior between a valet and his master. Scotty –Mr. Scott, Leonard presumed, though he supposed he could just be named for the country at large – bowed Leonard through the door more playfully than professionally, and Leonard met his new patient for the first time. 

Lieutenant James Kirk (Ret., discharged with injury) was, and Leonard wasn’t particularly professional for noticing this first, one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen. Though his skin had the pallor of long illness and hours indoors, his hair still shone like he was standing in the Spanish sun, and his blue eyes were lively and quick. He was dressed immaculately, if a bit out of fashion – breeches were disappearing from the tailor’s shops these days, though it was clear to see why Kirk wore them. Only his uninjured leg was appropriately covered with a white stocking. The other was scandalously dressed in only a long swathe of bandages, and his feet were bare. He was smiling as Leonard walked in, mischievous and friendly. 

Leonard’s heart, usually encased in a thin layer of stone, missed a beat, the foolish thing.

He cleared his throat. “Mr. Kirk,” he said, stepping forward. “I’m Leonard McCoy, the physician hired to assist with your long-term recovery.”

“Hmmm,” Kirk was looking at him with a sort of bright curiosity that Leonard very carefully didn’t confuse with romantic interest. To have his own unusual proclivities was one thing; to project them onto others was to court danger. “A sawbones, right? Served in the Wars? Were you in Spain, by any chance?” 

Leonard nearly flinched at the old name, but he knelt at Kirk’s feet instead, opening his bag to lay out supplies. “Yes. Five years.”

Kirk did wince at that. “Too long for anybody,” he said softly, shifting his bad leg forward as Leonard pulled out a pair of razor sharp scissors. “You were suggested to me, however, because of your experience with war wounds.”

Leonard gently tugged the stiff bandages open, wrinkling his nose at the smell – not a stench, but not clean, either. The bandages were stuck to the wound as well, from blood and fluid. “This is going to hurt,” he said, before pulling firmly with no more warning. 

Kirk yelped and nearly kicked him in the chin. “You call that a warning?”

Leonard raised a sardonic eyebrow. “Didn’t want you tensing up,” he said innocently, though his lips curved into the barest hint of a teasing smile. He refocused on the wound. It was long and deep enough that he scowled over its not being properly sewn shut when it was fresh. At this point, swelling from the formerly broken leg had made it impossible to suture the wound. “What sort of idiot,” he muttered under his breath, “left this open?”

Kirk laughed. “Our camp doctor kind of idiot,” he replied. “I think it was an experiment? My mind was approximately 90% brandy at the time.” 

“It’s like we’re living in the Dark Ages,” Leonard muttered, furious at whomever had done this ridiculous hack job. If it had been properly sutured in the beginning, this kid would be well on the way to recovery. As it was, everything had just become more complicated.

He massaged the muscles, asked Kirk to point and flex his toes, lift his knee. The bone had set, though it should be splinted a bit longer. There was weakness in the muscle, however; if they could save the leg, there was a fair chance Kirk would end up with a limp. But he wasn’t in a tent filled with flies, blood, and feces; Leonard wasn’t worried about actually losing him, if he didn’t act like a damn fool and ignore doctor’s orders. 

Leonard looked up, suspicious. “If I tell you how to take care of this,” he said severely, “will you obey orders?”

“Of course!” Kirk said, his too-blue eyes much too innocent. In the same breath, Scotty the valet said, “No, absolutely not.” 

Kirk glared at him. Scotty shrugged back. “I want ye in one piece, laddie.” The accent washed over Leonard, familiar; he’d trained out enough of his own brogue to be taken seriously in English circles. It was more a soft burr than Scotty’s proud rolling vowels and swallowed consonants. “He won’t listen, Doctor, he never does. He’ll be wandering off in search of adventure before the day’s out.”

Leonard carefully cleaned the wound, using strong vodka to clear the blood and old mucus. Kirk hissed but didn’t try to pull away. “It needs to be cleaned and allowed to breathe daily before being re-wrapped.” He paused a moment before saying, ridiculously, “I’ll come by and take care of it.”

There was no need. He could certainly show Scotty how to do it, or send one of the surgeons. But Kirk, damn him, beamed at him like the sun. 

“In that case,” he said, absolutely looking at Leonard from beneath his lashes, “I’ll try and behave myself.”

Leonard turned resolutely to his work. 

This was a terrible idea. 

But he did nothing to stop it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Jim’s life settled into a routine. 

Normally, he hated the entire concept of routine. Life was meant to be interesting, exciting, not dull and predictable, but in this case, routine was of itself, somewhat unpredictable. He’d wake up at 9, when Scotty came in and tortured him with sunlight, throw on some clothes (always scandalously underdressed for company, but Jim wasn’t hanging around his own home in a frock coat, gloves, and uncomfortable dress shoes), and walk downstairs for breakfast, prepared by his cook. Scotty would eat at the table at him, even though valets should eat in the kitchen, and they’d discuss any household matters that needed taking care of. Scotty was Jim’s valet, but he did act, in many capacities, as the household’s butler as well. He organized the small staff, saw to the larder, and kept an eye on the finances. Jim appreciated it all; Scotty’s heart belonged to engineering and inventions, but he’d put that aside for the time it would take for Jim to heal up properly. 

Around 11 o’clock, Dr. Leonard McCoy’s knock would come at the front door. Scotty would go to answer it while Jim arranged himself artistically on his hand-me-down settee. 

If he was going to be poked and prodded by the most handsome doctor he’d ever seen, he was damn well going to look gorgeous while doing it. Jim wasn’t ashamed of the man he was, and he could see attraction like a sixth sense in both men and women. Leonard McCoy was attracted, and attractive.

He was also hilarious.

“Good morning, Dr. McCoy,” Jim would greet the physician cordially. 

“There is no such thing,” McCoy would grumble. “Already can’t breathe out there for the smoke. What fools decided we all needed to have permanent smog in out lungs? This city’s a cesspool.”

“And yet you live in it,” Jim would point out, delighted, and then settle in for whatever rant was on the doctor’s mind that day. Many of these rants had to do with London’s wealthiest families, all of whom Jim knew to recognize on the street, and rather than chastise the good doctor, Jim would just encourage him with tales of bizarre behavior and occasional debauchery on the part of his fellows. 

McCoy wasn’t a laugher, but he had this sly smile that made Jim’s heart do energetic backflips. 

As they talked, McCoy would unwrap and clean his wound, apply a cooling poultice, and order him to leave it in the air until “I get back.”

“But it’s lunchtime!” Jim would argue, “And my cook’s made delicious—“ whatever she had made. She was thrilled in Jim’s growing interest in what was served, even if McCoy had marched down there and given orders on what, exactly, Jim could eat while in recovery. 

McCoy would hem and haw and talk about being busy while Scotty set three places. Then he’d give in and stay for lunch. Here was where Jim shone, telling stories, recounting boyhood adventures, coaxing some out of McCoy in return. There were variations on this theme, of course, but the payoff was always the same: a full three hours in McCoy’s company while his wound “breathed,” where topics ranged from medicine to literature to alcohol (more an argument than anything else) to fashion (mostly McCoy bitching about it and Jim playfully defending it). 

They only topic they never brought up was the war.

McCoy never said a word or complained about Scotty at the table and, indeed, spoke to “Mr. Scott” with the same formal affection as “Mr. Kirk,” though Jim was pleased to say those hazel eyes didn’t linger on Scotty like they did him. 

After lunch came the new bandage, and McCoy would be on his way, to Jim’s chagrin. The rest of the day was generally a boring affair of journals and books and cups of tea until dinner. Then to bed and start it all over again. 

\------

“The surgeon who came by while you were out of town wants to know why you’re not bleeding me,” Jim said one afternoon. McCoy had abandoned him for two days for a special consultation at Bath. They’d been an exceptionally boring two days. 

“Well, tell him from me,” McCoy growled, “that I don’t care what books say, people just get weak and die when we let all the blood pour out of them.” He finished off the new bandage and sat back on his heels. Jim carefully didn’t think about having the doctor in that position, because it wouldn’t be right while McCoy was acting in a medical capacity. “It’s time you start walking more.”

Jim lit up. “Walking? Outside?”

“Outside, yes, but inside as well. The muscles have atrophied from bedrest. You’ll be tired more easily than you’ll like, and your leg’s going to hurt like hell, but it’s necessary.”

Jim flexed his foot thoughtfully. “A turn around the neighborhood would be a nice change,” he said. He batted blue eyes at the doctor. “Though I should probably be escorted in case of emergency.”

“That,” McCoy said dryly, though a smile tugged at the corner of his lips, “is why you have a valet.” 

“Scotty has the evening off,” Jim said easily. “If you have other cases, you can come by after. I’ll even provide dinner.”

McCoy studied him for a long moment, fierce brows drawn down but his eyes curious and watchful. Jim could hear his heart beat in his ears once, twice, three times.

“You’re besotted,” Scotty had warned him, and his friend wasn’t wrong. 

“Very well,” the physician said, pushing to his feet smoothly. He rolled down his sleeves and reached to a chair to pull back on his frock coat, removed for ease of movement. “I’m free for the afternoon.” He held a broad hand out. “You have earned some little freedom, I think.”

Jim grinned and took the hand, letting the shift of muscle in McCoy’s arms lift him from the sofa. The man was still built like a soldier. Jim wasn’t at his best after months in recovery, but he knew he was still attractive. Certainly, he was attractive to McCoy, the way those eyes flickered over him before the man growled at himself for looking. 

Jim grinned.

\------

They were attacked on one of their walks four weeks later. 

They had travelled further than usual, as McCoy wanted to push Jim and Jim didn’t mind at all. They’d wandered down by the Thames, Jim amusing only-child-McCoy with stories of him and Sam getting into trouble as children. Night was falling and they were turning back toward home when four men burst from an alley armed with clubs and daggers and demanded their money.

Jim, true to form, sized them up to determine if he could take them. At full health, yes. Now? It would depend on how useful McCoy was in a fight. He looked over at the doctor.

McCoy was pulling out his purse. “Calm down,” he said, his eyes flickering over the one closest to him with clear concern. The man’s eyes were wild and his breathing was uneven. “There’s no reason anyone should be hurt.” His other hand he held out in front of Jim, as if to keep the younger man from moving. 

The man with the club grabbed it and started shifting through the coins inside. The wild-eyed man, who held a long if somewhat rusted kitchen knife in one hand, twitched. Jim quietly widened his stance and adjusted his hold on the walking stick McCoy insisted he carry. The others just wanted money, but that one – there some something in his system making him act like this. 

“You too,” the man with the club said. Jim scowled but reached into his inner breast pocket. A flash of silver from the small purse caught the falling light, and the third man yelped, “He’s armed!”

All hell broke loose. The man with the club lunged for Jim, slamming the wood down and missing his head only because Jim was quick on his feet. It hurt – a stab of pain from his bad leg – but the muscles didn’t give out. He brought his stick up and caught the man in the chest, sending him stumbling back. 

McCoy, meanwhile, was grappling primarily with the wild-eyed man, though the other two were surging toward them as well. He was a big man, taller than Jim and broader built. They clearly thought he was more of a threat than a pale blond with a limp. Of course, they were wrong for a number of reasons: Jim was fast, Jim was a brawler, and, Jim was somehow not surprised to find, McCoy hesitated to fight hard enough that he might seriously injure one of their attackers.

Jim had no such compunctions. 

His stick flew, cracking against rips and slamming into kidneys. He sent the fourth man down and the others turned on him – all save the wild-eyed man, who was screaming nonsense and straining against McCoy’s hold, trying to slam the knife home in the physician’s neck. Jim’s breathing was steady, his eyes clear – if he had a sword, they’d all be dead by now.

He had spent two years as light infantry; going in first, taking the lead, slinking through danger and facing it head-on. His heart was pumping and he laughed aloud as the man with the club joined his comrade in the dust.

There was a grunt of pain and a splash of red out of the corner of his eyes. Jim turned, let himself be distracted by blood on McCoy’s shoulder, called out, “Bones!” and took a punch to the face so hard it felt like he cracked his cheekbone. He stumbled.

“Jim-” McCoy growled, and then he twisted a hand free and, with incredibly efficiency, brought the side of it in a sharp snap against the wild-eyed man’s throat that sent him gasping to his knees. McCoy kicked him aside as Jim refocused and knocked the air out of his own attacker. 

“You shoulder-”

“Fine,” McCoy snapped, “Your leg-”

“Fine!” Jim laughed, his eyes sparkling with adrenaline as he reached out and grabbed McCoy’s hand in his own. “Come on!” 

He took off running, dragging the taller man behind him as he whooped into the night.

\----

Jim fumbled with his own front door before stumbling inside. He still had Leonard’s hand, and he turned as the door shut, his body so close that Jim’s heat was a counterpoint to the cool wallpaper at Leonard’s back. “Bones,” he said, and his voice dipped an octave, his cheeks pink with exertion. 

Leonard’s breath caught. “Jim-” and he’d never called him that, not before tonight.

“Before I do anything else,” Jim said, “two questions. First: Your shoulder?”

“Just a cut.” Leonard turned his head, cursing himself for not trying to get away, and showed the fine cut, close enough to his scalp to have bled heavily.

“Good. We’ll clean that up. Second,” Jim’s eyes were blown, and his gaze flickered hungrily to Leonard’s mouth. “Is it going to offend your professional sensibilities when I drag you upstairs and make love to you?”

Leonard’s breath caught, restarted. “I . . . it would be unprofessional,” he said, his mouth curving into a wry smile, “yes. I am in your employ.”

“Then you’re fired.” Jim’s hands tangled in Leonard’s lapels and tugged him down. 

There was no hesitation; Jim poured passion into the kiss, all those long afternoon talks and hidden kindness and grumbling complaints. Leonard lifted a hand and cupped his jaw with a gentleness that made Jim catch his breath. He tilted his head and caught Jim’s bottom lip between his own, tongue flickering across sensitive skin. 

“Oh,” Jim said when they pulled apart, looking terribly pleased with himself. “I knew it’d be that good.”

“Did you?” Leonard asked, and there was that Scots purr that sent desire shooting shamelessly down Jim’s spine. “I’ll show you more than that, but not,” he looked around, “in the entryway.”

“Upstairs. My room. Scotty’s night off.” Jim walked backwards, grinning and tugging Leonard along. His bad leg gave a little, a soft limp, but he stepped easily up the stairs anyway.

“Mr. Scott seems to have a fair number of nights off,” Leonard commented as he reached for Jim’s cravat, gently pulling it free to unknot it. 

They stumbled onto the top floor. “Wasn’t sure when you’d give in to my charms,” Jim admitted cheerfully. He turned enough to open and door and pull Leonard inside. “Thought you might be shy if he came in to pick up your trousers when we’re in the middle of the festivities.”

Leonard let out a bark of laugh and Jim pressed against him, kissing him again. “God above, I adore that sound,” he said against Leonard’s lips. “Need to do it more often.”

They’d had a number of conversations about the unnecessary layers in modern fashion. Leonard had snarled about them from a doctor’s point of view; as cravats and frock coats and waistcoats and belts and trousers were tugged off and tossed at the walls, Jim growled, “Very well, I see your point about the layers,” and Leonard, finally bare to his shorts, laughed as he pushed Jim onto the bed. 

Jim licked his lips, eyes flickering over broad shoulders, curls of dark hair. “Beautiful,” he said, meaning it, and he didn’t miss the faint flush high on Leonard’s cheeks. He reached up, wrapping a hand around Leonard’s neck. “Come here, Bones,” he purred, his cock thick in his breeches. 

“We’re going to have a talk about that nickname,” Leonard said, but he leaned down, catching Jim’s mouth even as broad hands lifted his hips, tugging off the final layers keeping him from Jim’s body. Jim hummed happily. 

“You’re going to learn to love it,” he said. “Get these off.” He tugged at Leonard’s pants, hips grinding up in search of friction. 

“Am I?” Leonard pulled away enough to toss the last of his clothing, and Jim moaned approval as the last of his lover was revealed. “I thought you fired me.”

“As a physician,” Jim said, gripping Leonard’s hip and looking up at him, lips swollen, cheeks pink, but his eyes steady, “not as my friend, and not as my lover.”

Leonard closed his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed with affection and lust and everything tangled in between. Then he leaned down, tucking his arms at Jim’s sides and kissing him with slow, unhurried deliberation that left Jim moaning around his tongue, hips rocking their lengths together. “What do you want?” he whispered against Jim’s skin as he kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck. His accent thickened, curled in his throat and chest. 

Jim’s nails dug into the backs of Leonard’s shoulders, just enough to send a shiver down his back. “Oil in the drawer,” he said clearly. “Inside me.”

Leonard lifted his head, that damned eyebrow arching in surprise. “This is only the first time, we don’t have to-”

Jim scowled playfully. “You asked what I wanted, doctor. And what I want, is you,” he wrapped a hand around Leonard’s erection and gave it a squeeze, “inside me.” The frown melted into his more habitual grin. “Your cockstand is very interested, whatever issues you might have with the invitation.”

Leonard kissed him again, focused in a way Jim had never felt before, as if he was the only person in the world and every bit of warmth and fondness and genius that Leonard had to offer was his for the taking. 

“Next time,” Leonard murmured, licking his way to Jim’s ear, nipping at the lobe, “I’m taking all the time I desire to taste every bit of you, until you have no words and only moans of my name left.”

“Oh. God.” Jim breathed, eyes a bit wide. Leonard’s smile was a promise as he pulled away to find the drawer in question. 

Leonard fucked like he kissed; complete dedication, complete focus, aware of every sound and every twitch of Jim’s body. It was so far removed from desperate days at war – he pushed in slowly, steady and slick and heavy and-

“God!” Jim moaned again, and he earned a soft laugh that sounded like, “No, just me, darling,” before clever fingers pressed between his balls and the cock filling him and pressed, massaging his prostate from the outside even as Leonard moved inside him. 

Jim arched off the bed and bit down on Leonard’s shoulder. “Move,” he ordered, breathless and tight, and Leonard did. 

Their foreheads pressed together, hazel eyes meeting blue, and Jim’s fingers traced Leonard’s jaw in a move almost more intimate than the steady thrust of Leonard inside him, the slow spread of pleasure along his spine. Leonard’s gaze was soft, the snap of his hips hard, Jim’s own hand stroking his cock steady and desperate. “Bones,” he whispered, “Bones, Bones, Leonard, Bones,” because for the first time who he was with felt as important as what they were doing. 

Leonard came first, a burst of warmth, hard shuddering thrusts. Jim arched his back, made a noise low in his throat, his hand speeding up. He was so focused on his own pleasure that he almost missed the gentle pull out, Leonard’s body sliding down, Leonard’s hand covering his own. “Calm down,” Leonard murmured, breath hot against sensitive flesh, and then he took Jim in his mouth.

Jim climaxed on a low moan, his hands tangled in dark hair, his back arching as two fingers inside him brushed gently and the heat of Leonard’s mouth took him in, swallowed down his seed. 

He came down from the high to feel his lover’s body on top of him. Leonard was on his elbows, watching Jim’s face with something like uncertainty. 

Jim smiled lazily at him. “Very well done, Doctor,” he said, tugging Leonard down for a lazy kiss. “I’m thoroughly impressed and look forward to future assignations.”

Leonard hid a snort of a laugh against his shoulder. There were words on the tip of his tongue, but they could wait. He didn’t want too much, too soon. He knew how he felt. Jim needed time. 

Jim rolled them over, tangled their legs together, explored Leonard’s mouth with kisses. “Stay,” he murmured, surprising himself with how much he wanted Leonard to do so. “It’s early hours yet.”

Lips pressed against his hair, sweet and warm. “Very well. Save me a trip to check on your leg in the morning.”

Jim laughed softly. “Not the only thing we’ll be doing in the morning, Dr. McCoy,” he promised with a slow smile that promised carnal delights and hot tea and rambling conversations, all in one.


End file.
